The upper corridor hummed with its usual order: short, matter-of-fact sentences filtered through doors left ajar, inside the right hand’s men bent over maps and lists, and at the top of the servants’ stair two large clay jugs waited for me—to carry before the meeting room ahead of the noon briefing. Margot stood at the foot of the stairs and gave the same gentle yet non-negotiable signal as always: “One jug in the left hand, the other in the right; we don’t rush, but we don’t stop either. And mind the stone at the turn—housekeepers have been complaining since morning that someone keeps greasing the edge.”
I’d barely been eating these last days. Two bites of bread, a few swallows of soup—just enough not to feel my stomach immediately ask, “Is this really what I deserve?” Guilt dragged down
